I'm no different. Never was.
I just let myself forget for a little while.
The night crawlsby with agonizing slowness. Amisra wakes twice, both times crying for her father, and I hold her and murmur soothing nonsense until she exhausts herself back into fitful sleep. My own exhaustion is bone-deep, but sleep won't come. Every time I try to rest, my mind circles back to the study. To Valas's face. To the reality I can no longer ignore.
When dawn finally breaks, painting the room in shades of gray and gold, I'm still sitting in that chair. My back aches. My eyes burn. My heart feels like something trampled and left to rot.
Amisra stirs around mid-morning, blinking awake with confused, puffy eyes. For just a moment, she looks almost normal—then memory crashes back and her face crumples.
"Papa's gone," she whispers.
"I know, sweet girl." I move to the bed, gather her into my arms. "I know. I'm so sorry."
She cries again, quieter this time, like she's already running out of tears. I hold her and stroke her hair and feel my own grief mixing with hers until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
When she finally pulls back, she looks around the room with lost, bewildered eyes. "Where's Uncle Val?"
My chest constricts. "He's... he's around. Probably resting."
"I don't want to see him."
The words are small and fierce and heartbreaking. I smooth back her tangled silver hair, try to keep my voice steady. "Why not, Ami?"
"Because he looks like Papa." Her lower lip trembles. "And he said he'd make Papa better but he didn't and now Papa'sgone."
Oh, gods. She blames him. Of course she does. Children need someone to blame when their world shatters, and Valas promised he could heal Daryn. That he'd find a way.
Just like I let myself believe Valas was different. That he wouldn't see me as property.
We're both fools, this child and I.
"Uncle Val tried very hard," I manage. "He did everything he could."
"It wasn't enough." Amisra burrows back into my arms, her voice muffled against my shoulder. "Nothing's enough. Everything's terrible and I don't want to see anyone."
I hold her tighter, blinking back my own tears. "Then you don't have to. We'll stay right here, just the two of us. Alright?"
She nods, her small body trembling.
So we stay.
The days blurtogether after that.
I become Amisra's shadow, her shield, the only constant in a world that's been torn apart. She won't leave her room. Won't eat more than a few bites of whatever I coax into her. Won't play with her toys or read her books or do anything except curl up in my lap and stare at nothing.
The spark that made herAmi—the brightness, the laughter, the endless curiosity—has been snuffed out. What's left is this hollow, grieving shell of a child who flinches at loud noises and cries herself to sleep every night.
And I'm not much better.
I go through the motions. Brush her hair. Change her clothes. Sing her the lullabies my own mother used to sing to me, back when I still had a mother. But inside, I'm just as hollow. Just as broken.
Valas tries to see us. Multiple times a day, actually. I hear his footsteps in the hallway, hear him pause outside the door. Sometimes he knocks. Sometimes he just stands there, silent, like he's gathering courage to speak.
I never answer.
I can't.
What would I even say?Hello, Master. Did you need something from your property?
